When all had been perform’d, the royal Goth
Look’d up towards the chamber in the tower,
Where gazing on the multitude below,
Alone Rusilla stood. He met her eye,
For it was singling him amid the crowd;
Obeying then the hand which beckon’d him,
He went with heart prepared, nor shrinking now,
But arm’d with self-approving thoughts that hour.
Entering in tremulous haste, he closed the door,
And turn’d to clasp her knees; but lo, she spread
Her arms, and catching him in close embrace,
Fell on his neck, and cried, My Son, my Son!...
Ere long, controlling that first agony
With effort of strong will, backward she bent,
And gazing on his head now shorn and grey,
And on his furrow’d countenance, exclaim’d,
Still, still, my Roderick! the same noble mind!
The same heroic heart! Still, still, my Son; ...
Changed, ... yet not wholly fallen, ... not wholly lost,
He cried, ... not wholly in the sight of Heaven
Unworthy, O my Mother, nor in thine!
She lock’d her arms again around his neck,
Saying, Lord, let me now depart in peace!
And bow’d her head again, and silently
Gave way to tears.
When that first force was spent,
And passion in exhaustment found relief, ...
I knew thee, said Rusilla, when the dog
Rose from my feet, and lick’d his master’s hand.
All flash’d upon me then; the instinctive sense
That goes unerringly where reason fails, ...
The voice, the eye, ... a mother’s thoughts are quick, ...
Miraculous as it seem’d, ... Siverian’s tale, ...
Florinda’s, ... every action, ... every word, ...
Each strengthening each, and all confirming all,
Reveal’d thee, O my Son! but I restrain’d
My heart, and yielded to thy holier will
The thoughts which rose to tempt a soul not yet
Wean’d wholly from the world.
What thoughts? replied
Roderick. That I might see thee yet again
Such as thou wert, she answer’d; not alone
To Heaven and me restored, but to thyself, ...
Thy Crown, ... thy Country, ... all within thy reach;
Heaven so disposing all things, that the means
Which wrought the ill, might work the remedy.
Methought I saw thee once again the hope, ...
The strength, ... the pride of Spain! The miracle
Which I beheld made all things possible.
I know the inconstant people how their mind,
With every breath of good or ill report,
Fluctuates, like summer corn before the breeze;
Quick in their hatred, quicker in their love,
Generous and hasty, soon would they redress
All wrongs of former obloquy ... I thought
Of happiness restored, ... the broken heart
Heal’d, ... and Count Julian, for his daughter’s sake,
Turning in thy behalf against the Moors
His powerful sword: ... all possibilities
That could be found or fancied, built a dream
Before me; such as easiest might illude
A lofty spirit train’d in palaces,
And not alone amid the flatteries
Of youth with thoughts of high ambition fed
When all is sunshine, but through years of woe,
When sorrow sanctified their use, upheld
By honourable pride and earthly hopes.
I thought I yet might nurse upon my knee
Some young Theodofred, and see in him
Thy Father’s image and thine own renew’d,
And love to think the little hand which there
Play’d with the bauble, should in after days
Wield the transmitted sceptre; ... that through him
The ancient seed should be perpetuate, ...
That precious seed revered so long, desired
So dearly, and so wonderously preserved.
Nay, he replied, Heaven hath not with its bolts
Scathed the proud summit of the tree, and left
The trunk unflaw’d; ne’er shall it clothe its boughs
Again, nor push again its scyons forth,
Head, root, and branch, all mortified alike!...
Long ere these locks were shorn had I cut off
The thoughts of royalty! Time might renew
Their growth, as for Manoah’s captive son,
And I too on the miscreant race, like him,
Might prove my strength regenerate; but the hour,
When in its second best nativity,
My soul was born again through grace, this heart
Died to the world. Dreams such as thine pass now
Like evening clouds before me; if I think
How beautiful they seem, ’tis but to feel
How soon they fade, how fast the night shuts in.
But in that World to which my hopes look on,
Time enters not, nor Mutability;
Beauty and goodness are unfading there;
Whatever there is given us to enjoy,
That we enjoy for ever, still the same....
Much might Count Julian’s sword atchieve for Spain
And me, but more will his dear daughter’s soul
Effect in Heaven; and soon will she be there
An Angel at the throne of Grace, to plead
In his behalf and mine.
I knew thy heart,
She answer’d, and subdued the vain desire.
It was the World’s last effort. Thou hast chosen
The better part. Yes, Roderick, even on earth
There is a praise above the monarch’s fame,
A higher, holier, more enduring praise,
And this will yet be thine!
O tempt me not,
Mother! he cried; nor let ambition take
That specious form to cheat us! What but this,
Fallen as I am, have I to offer Heaven?
The ancestral sceptre, public fame, content
Of private life, the general good report,
Power, reputation, happiness, ... whate’er
The heart of man desires to constitute
His earthly weal, ... unerring Justice claim’d
In forfeiture. I with submitted soul
Bow to the righteous law and kiss the rod.
Only while thus submitted, suffering thus, ...
Only while offering up that name on earth,
Perhaps in trial offer’d to my choice,
Could I present myself before thy sight;
Thus only could endure myself, or fix
My thoughts upon that fearful pass, where Death
Stands in the Gate of Heaven!... Time passes on,
The healing work of sorrow is complete;
All vain desires have long been weeded out,
All vain regrets subdued; the heart is dead,
The soul is ripe and eager for her birth.
Bless me, my Mother! and come when it will
The inevitable hour, we die in peace.
So saying, on her knees he bow’d his head;
She raised her hands to Heaven and blest her child;
Then bending forward, as he rose, embraced
And claspt him to her heart, and cried, Once more
Theodofred, with pride behold thy son!